Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.
The philosophic mind inclines always to an elaborate life--the life of Goethe or of Leonardo da Vinci; but the life of the poet isintense--the life of Blake or of Dante--taking into its centre the life that surrounds it and flinging it abroad again amid planetary music.
The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.
Let my country die for me.
My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.